Nobody's Business
by Femme Teriyaki
Summary: Fleur shook her head. 'Understand this: What I do and do not eat is nobody's business.'
1. Nobody\'s Business

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, JKR owns everything. Yep, that seems about right.

**A/N:** This is my first non-humor fic, so please be honest about it. It's not my usual happiness and sunshine--just a warning.

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**_Nobody's Business_**

Fleur Delacour stretched her long legs along the chair, yawning at her reflection in the shimmering, chlorinated water. She never felt sicker than when she was at her father's estate—she only came because of the pool, though her boyfriend, Mitchell, seemed to think she came because he lived in the expansive estate next door. The "Boy Next Door" thing was appealing to her for all of about five seconds—then she suddenly realized how _over_ the whole idea was. Boy Next Door romances were for movies, not real life.

Clarabelle, the ridiculously incompetent maid, came to the side of the pool, carrying a tray ten times too heavy for her. Stumbling, she sat the tray down on the chair beside Fleur, who only scowled at her: "Your breakfast, Miss."

Fleur picked up the croissant, looking at it with a toxic mixture of disgust, disdain, and fascination as Mitchell joined her by the pool. Seeing Fleur, Mitchell frowned. "I see you're still inhaling your breakfast," he said sardonically, hardly hiding his contempt.

"Almost everything in this world smells better than it tastes," reasoned Fleur, raising her coffee to her nose and taking in the rich smell. _The BND thing is très passé_, she thought, ignoring the look on Mitchell's face, thinking about his replacement.

"You're crazy," he said, deftly taking her croissant from her and stuffing it artlessly into his mouth.

"I hate that," she said suddenly, unperturbedly removing her sunglasses and sitting up. _After all, you don't just take what isn't yours, Mitch_, she thought, feeling colder than the Fresca that sat serenely to her left._ That is, if you're not a Delacour—if you're a Delacour, that's called divine right._

"Hate what?" said Mitchell—it wasn't a question—he knew exactly what ticked Fleur off, what pushed her buttons, everything that made her who she was—he'd known her that long. "Normal people _eat_, Fleur—they don't inhale, they _eat_." Noting her put-out expression—like she was five years old and had just been informed that she couldn't be a tree when she grew up—Mitchell smiled at her, taking her hand. "Hey, I just worry about you," he said, stroking the back of her palm as she replaced her sunglasses, returning to her reclining position.

"I'm just trying to get a tan," she said coldly, callously, hastily snatching her hand away from him and using it to brush her hair away from her face. _You already had two strikes, Mitch—what I do and do not eat is nobody's business._

_---_

When she saw him, Fleur rushed at him, grabbed him by the tie, and pulled him into the deserted cloakroom. Amid a ridiculous amount of kisses, she managed to get it out: "Broke up with Mitch today." She didn't know why she even bothered telling him this—after all, he shouldn't care: Draco Malfoy wasn't stupid—he should have known that as far as Fleur was concerned, he was second-string.

Draco abruptly pulled away, looking Fleur squarely in the eye— "So… what does that mean for us?"

Fleur frowned, wondering what on earth he meant by asking this question, the fact that she knew the implications of his words making her feel like the bottom of her stomach was falling out. _Us? There _is_ no us, Draco—this is a meaningless, piss-off-the-parents fling. _Fleur took a deep breath—she knew she couldn't handle someone else's feelings, at least not when she could barely handle her own. "It means I've got to go, I'm in Paris tomorrow," she said brusquely, straightening her shirt and taking a step back.

_It's getting hot in here_, Fleur thought as she pushed through the door, struggling to keep her composure as she raced through the crowded country club—_time to get out_.


	2. Old Habits

**_Old Habits_**

_I can't keep doing this_, Fleur thought, the disgusting taste of blended Fresca and a cucumber sandwich still in her mouth. She'd promised herself she'd stop, but the more stressful her life became, the more time she spent hunched over the toilet in the bathroom, purging herself of her life. It wasn't like her parents complained—and they knew, all right—they were just too busy staging their hostile takeover of the country to care. Money and power won over their daughter, every single time. _This is the last time_, she promised herself once more—_do you honestly think anyone likes you this way?_

She shook her head as she removed the toothbrush from her pocketbook—she carried one everywhere, just so she wouldn't have to feel guilty, reminded by that nasty vomit taste in her mouth. As she brushed away her self-disgust, she thought about Draco. "How did this happen?" she thought, seriously attacking her molars in frustration. He had been her alternative to purging, her other stress-relieving tactic—making out with Draco in empty cloakrooms, her parents' beach house, his parents' manor, knowing she wouldn't have to worry about maintaining a relationship, not thinking about her screwed-up life, if only for a few minutes. _Goddamn it, didn't you read the Terms of Service?_ He'd agreed when she told him that she wasn't looking for a relationship—just a no strings attached chance at some fun, no feelings involved. _Maybe I was kidding myself,_ she sighed as she rinsed her mouth, _thinking that this would work._

_I can't do this anymore, I can't do this anymore, I can't do this anymore_, Fleur thought, repeating the mantra over and over again, so focused on it that she ran right into someone on her way out of the bathroom. "Sorry," Fleur said quickly, though it was obvious she didn't mean it—it was Draco's little redhead girlfriend. _She thinks she's so hardcore,_ Fleur thought resentfully, scanning her outfit,_ just because she's dating a dark wizard_—_she's not as bad as she thinks she is_.

As soon as Ginny Weasley was behind her, Fleur rushed outside, spotting her ride: a sleek black limousine complete with an equally sleek driver. She hurried towards it, not even letting Andre open the door for her, instead throwing herself inside, and pulling a bottle of cabernet out from under the seat. She drank it straight from the bottle, even bothering to recall the calorie count. _I'm just going to throw it up anyway_, she thought, cursing her stress, cursing her messed-up life. _Old habits die hard._

2


End file.
